Chapter 2: page 1 page 2 page 3 page 4

 

THE MAKROPULOS CASE

Introduction
The Story of Act I
The Overture
The Music of Act I
The Story of Act II
The Music of Act II
The Story of Act III
The Music of Act III

Introduction

Two years before Janáček visited London, another famous Czech creative artist had made a similar journey: this was Karel Čapek, known for his novels and plays with a Utopian and philosophical turn to them, and as producer at the Prague City Theatre.

The London of 1924 terrified Čapek with its masses of people. "If there are so many people", he is reported to have said, "then human life cannot be worth very much." While in London Čapek met some of the principal literary figures of the day: H. G. Wells (whose novels of science fiction considerably influenced Čapek), John Galsworthy, Sir Nigel Playfair and George Bernard Shaw.

Shaw had published his huge five-part play Back to Methuselah in 1921, in which the author argued the case for an increased life span which would allow men a life of sufficient length to develop into a new and altogether richer maturity. Shaw’s elixir of life was no new and infallible chemical formula but a stiffening of the will to live: "The tremendous miracle-working force of will nerved to creation by a conviction of Necessity!" In the words of Franklyn Barnabas, one of the two brothers whose gospel of creative evolution is preached in the second part of Shaw’s metabiological pentateuch, "People will live three hundred years, not because they would like to, but because the soul deep down in them will know that they must, if the world is to be saved."

Čapek knew of Shaw’s Back to Methuselah and a year after its publication issued his own version on the question of longevity, a comedy in three acts, The Makropulos Case which some believe to be a reply to Shaw’s optimistic Utopian vision.

Čapek adopts a more pessimistic attitude-that 300 years is not sufficiently long for man to arrive at absolute truth, but too long to live with himself and with his environment, which could become a sempiternal ennui-a Hell upon earth.

One can readily believe that Shaw and Čapek must have had some very interesting conversations during the latter’s 1924 visit to London. While Shaw projects his optimistic theory of longevity as far as thought can reach into the future, Čapek looked backward, and the heroine of his play is already 300 years old when the play opens: although the author calls it a comedy, the underlying philosophy is tragic and his elixir of life is no abstract will to power but the extremely practical invention of a Crete doctor in the sixteenth century.

After he had finished his seventh opera The Adventures of Vixen Sharp-Ears in 1923, Janáček looked around for another subject and, while living at Štrbske Pleso in the High Tatras, he read concurrently Šalda’s The Child and Čapek’s The Makropulos Case. While the author of The Child refused Janáček permission to turn his play into an opera, Čapek, on the other hand, raised no objection, but warned the composer that the wordiness of his play might make it unsuitable for operatic treatment.

He even obligingly suggested writing a new libretto for Janáček, framed around a woman who lived for 300 years, but-in his own words-Janáček was already "caught" by it. "You know that terrible and sensitive thing in man which is without end. Sheer misfortune. He neither wants nor expects anything. This had to be made into a work." Besides, even while reading the play for the first time, music for it was beginning to take shape in his head. Janáček did not, however, immediately start working on the opera but towards the end of 1923 wrote instead his string Quartet No. 1 inspired by Tolstoy’s story, The Kreutzer Sonata, which was a reworking of an earlier discarded piano trio. The Quartet has certain programmatic affinities with the novel and also some relationship, not only with the composer’s own opera Kátja  Kabanová but with that most celebrated of all the Beethoven violin and piano sonatas-the Kreutzer Sonata, Op. 47.

A few days after the quartet was completed, Janáček started to write the music of The Makropulos Case which occupied him from 11 November 1923 until December 1925. He interrupted this work to compose a wind sextet "Mladi" (Youth) to celebrate his own seventieth birthday in July 1924.

In some ways, Janáček looked upon his opera The House of the Dead as a continuation of the underlying motif of The Makropulos Case. Referring to its heroine, Emelia Marty, he wrote: "You know the terror, the inner feelings of a human being who will never cease to breathe; complete despair which wants nothing and expects nothing. This will be developed in my Dostoevsky opera."

The story of the opera is the story of the play, for the text of the libretto is only a shortened version of the play. In the preface to the first edition, Čapek writes that he first conceived it as being in novel form, though the impulse behind it was Professor Mecnikov’s theory that old age is auto-intoxication of the organism and that any resemblance between his play and Shaw’s Back to Methuselah was purely accidental.

Čapek wrote what amounts to a sequel to this play, a second fantastic comedy of the absolute which he called Adam, the Creator which most commentators considered to be influenced by Back to Methuselah and in some way an answer to its Utopian philosophy. Man cannot will to be something mightier than God has made him: he must accept the role allotted to him in the scheme of creation. This realistic attitude is also the underlying philosophy of "Makropulos".

"In my comedy I wish to convey to the audience a sense of optimism and consolation", wrote the author. "Perhaps ;t is optimistic to say that it is a good thing to live seventy years and a bad thing to live three hundred years. If at some future time poverty, toil and disease have vanished-that is certainly optimistic. But if we accept life as we know it today with its filth, poverty, toil and disease, is it optimistic or pessimistic to say that it is not wholly bad because it contains spiritual qualities of infinite value to us." There may be two kinds of optimism-one which looks forward to incomparably better conditions for mankind, that desires to create a paradise on earth, and a second more realistic search for at least some crumbs of relative good-perhaps this restricted vision is not without its value. If this is not optimism, concludes Čapek) then you must find another word for it.

The Story of Act I

The scene of Act I is an office of a lawyer’s clerk furnished accordingly: in the background there is a high filing cabinet with numerous files marked alphabetically, and a step ladder leaning against the wall. We also see a desk, table and several chairs for waiting clients. An elderly clerk, Vítek, is putting away some papers into the filing cabinet. He evidently has something on his mind for he keeps muttering about the case of Gregor versus Prus. Climbing up the steps he takes down an index file and paging through it tells us that this case has been dragging on for close on a century. But, he adds wistfully, when judgment is given in the High Court today, that will put an end to it.

Returning the file to its place, he mutters philosophically that nothing lasts forever-vanitas vanitatis-and sits down reflectively on the top rung of the step-ladder. His thoughts turn to the wealthy and avaricious Baron Prus and his descendants who have kept the case alive for close on a hundred years. Vítek discloses his socialist convictions, feels strongly on the matter of old county families and relieves his feelings by declaiming some lines from a famous French Revolution speech: "Citizens! how long will you continue to allow the King of France to pamper the nobility, men who owe their position and privileges to tyranny and not to nature or reason?"

Unnoticed by the clerk, someone has slipped into the doorway and stands listening to him. This is the Albert Gregor mentioned by Vítek who is opposing Prus in the lawsuit which we have learned is to be decided today. With a "Good day, Citizen Marat!", Gregor gaily greets the clerk who, climbing down the ladder, replies dryly that Danton, not Marat, was the author of the speech he has been reciting. "Speech of October 23, 1792", he adds pedantically; then, recollecting that he is only a humble clerk in the office of Dr. Kolenatý and Gregor a claimant to an immense fortune, begs to be excused for mentioning the fact. Gregor is bursting with impatience to know the outcome of his case and, as Vítek knows nothing, demands that the clerk telephone his superior, Dr. Kolenatý at the High Court and find out the news.

While awaiting a reply, the old clerk muses sadly on the wickedness of killing off such a wonderful "dripping-roast" of a lawsuit by pressing home a final decision from the highest court in the land. Gregor abruptly tells him not to be such an idiot! Gregor knows that if he loses the case he is ruined and will have little alternative but to shoot himself as, indeed, his father did before him, likewise because of extravagant debts he owed.

Kristina, the clerk’s daughter, enters carrying some parcels. She kisses her father and takes off her gloves. Kristina is a singing student studying opera and has just finished a rehearsal for tonight’s performance in which the world famous prima-donna, Emilia Marty, is starring.

The youthful Kristina has been quite overwhelmed at the superb artistry and wonderful voice of this great artist and radiantly beautiful woman: so much so that, pouting, she tells her father that she might just as well give up singing altogether. When Gregor asks her how old this Emilia Marty is, she replies that no one seems to know her age. Gregor gallantly replies that he will go to the theatre tonight but he will be there to see and hear Kristina sing, and not this Marty woman.

Janáček has cut out the short scene between Dr. Kolenatý and the others which follows in the play, and we now see Dr. Kolenatý ushering Emilia Marty into the office as though they had previously met: probably in the passage leading to his office.

Kristina is quite overwhelmed at the presence of such a distinguished visitor, arriving so unexpectedly; bowing and scraping, she and her father make an unobtrusive exit. At this point in the Prague National Theatre production I have seen of this opera, Dr. Kolenatý makes a courteous bow to Marty, points to his office and the revolving stage discloses the more palatially furnished office of the lawyer himself.

Marty tells him her business: she has read in the newspapers that the long-drawn-out Gregor versus Prus lawsuit is likely to be settled today. She is very interested in the case and would like to know more about it. The lawyer introduces her to his client, Gregor, and then proceeds to give her-and us-an outline of the case.

It is a very complex affair: sufficient for the reader to know that the fabulously wealthy Baron Prus died in 1827, unmarried, and without leaving a will. His estates were inherited by a cousin, but later contested by one, Ferdinand Gregor, the great-grandfather of the client who has just been introduced to Marty. It transpired, however, that Baron Prus made a death-bed request that his property should go to a certain Gregor Mach, hence the reason why Ferdinand Gregor laid claim to the Prus estate.

Marty unexpectedly discloses that she has knowledge of the affair unknown to either the principals or the lawyers. She tells her astonished listeners that when the feverish Baron said Gregor Mach, he really meant to say MacGregor-a Scottish name-and that this man was, in fact, the illegitimate son of the Baron, his mother being a singer at the Vienna Opera called Ellian MacGregor.

The lawyer is highly sceptical of the piece of gratuitous information and assures Marty that without written proof of such a fact his client cannot hope to win the case. He scribbles away irritably on a writing-pad and, in a voice heavy with irony, asks Emilia if she has any more questions to ask him.

She tells him to listen carefully: Dr. Kolenatý must go to the ancient house of Baron Prus and, in a certain cupboard among a lot of old papers and letters, he will find Baron Prus’s will, signed and sealed.

Dr. Kolenatý replies heatedly that the present Prus who occupies the house is hardly likely to let him rummage around: does she expect him to burgle the home-rope ladder, skeleton key and all! No thanks! And how can she expect him to believe that Marty-or anyone else alive-can know what is written inside an envelope sealed and hidden away for close on a hundred years?

Gregor, on the other hand, has been watching the fascinating opera singer closely and has come completely under her spell. He says fervently that he believes everything Emilia has told the lawyer and urges Dr. Kolenatý to go straight to the Prus house and find the missing will. Dr. Kolenatý replies that if that is how he feels about it, Gregor must find himself another lawyer.

Then follows an amusing episode as Gregor thumbs through the telephone book, while Kolenatý-on tenterhooks-reminds him that they have been lifelong friends and entreats him not to take his case to that old swindler, Dr. Abeles; finally he throws in his hand and agrees to go to the Prus house as requested.

After he has left, Gregor and Marty exchange a laugh and the singer, removing her coat, relaxes in an easy-chair. Gregor tells her this is the miracle he has been waiting for-he believes in her and is now positive that the will will be found for he trusts her. . . maybe because she is so very beautiful. Marty asks him, in a matter of fact tone, what his age is.

"Thirty-four", he replies, and proceeds to tell her that all his life he has coveted those millions and now that they are within his grasp he is delirious with joy. He confesses that he was at the end of his tether when out of the blue, she came along, famous, beautiful, full of mystery, and at one stroke solved his problem. But how did she know all this? How could she know about the will?

The reader seeing the opera on the stage will wisely have read the summary of the story in the programme and know that Marty is supposed to have lived already for more than 300 years, that she herself was the mistress of Baron Prus, the mother of the illegitimate MacGregor son and, consequently, the great-grandmother of this Gregor who will make passionate love to her in a few minutes. No matter! (Čapek never really intended to mystify his audience nor attempted to conceal the identity of his tempestuous heroine.

Indeed in the previous scene she betrays herself almost at once by expressing surprise at learning from Dr. Kolenatý that her lover of a century ago died in 1827. "Poor old chap", she says: "fancy that! I knew nothing about it!" We would have to be pretty dim not to see the significance of this "clue", not to mention her knowing the contents of a letter sealed and hidden for so long-unless, of course, we attribute clairvoyant powers to Marty!

To continue-Gregor tells Marty that he owes to her all his good fortune-even his life-and asks what he can give her in exchange. Marty immediately bristles at the suggestion, flaring out at Gregor and telling him that he is behaving like a small boy. Why does she treat him as if he was one then, Gregor asks, taken aback. After a moment or two of embarrassed silence Marty asks him some personal questions-what is his first name, what does his mother call him? Gregor replies that his mother called him Bertik but she has been dead for many years. "Bah! why must everyone die so soon! "Marty exclaims impatiently.

It is now Gregor’s turn to ask some personal questions. Who was this Ellian MacGregor? Was she beautiful? Did she love his great-grandfather? To which Marty replies that Ellian MacGregor was an opera singer who loved his great-grandfather "in her own way".

The infatuated Gregor becomes passionate, tells her that he fell in love with her at sight: if he’s crazy, then he’s never been so crazy as now. He finds her exciting, desirable, wonderful: there is even something frighteningly savage and mysterious about her. Marty is sitting on the couch with her fur coat wrapped loosely round her shoulders while Gregor circles round her in a fever of excitement. Marty scornfully repulses his advances.

Gregor now senses something evil, something unholy and bewitching about her. Surely, she must know how wonderfully beautiful she is? Marty is very tired (lights go up round her emphasizing the supernatural) and suddenly she appears very old. She wearily tells the enamoured Gregor to go away and leave her alone: then, as the lights around her fade, she remembers the true reason for her visit to the lawyer. If Gregor wishes to reward her he can give her those papers, letters and Greek documents that once belonged to this great-grandfather. She becomes strangely agitated when Gregor replies that he knows of no such papers. "Then Prus must have them", she screams at him desperately: "you must steal them for me."

Janáček makes another small cut here. As Marty asks Gregor to find her a taxi, Dr. Kolenatý bursts into the room, throws himself at her feet and begs her forgiveness for his stupidity in doubting her word. Baron Prus’s will has been found exactly where she said it was and sure enough it names Ferdinand Gregor as his heir.

The present Prus- "our arch-enemy", as Kolenatý half-humorously, half-earnestly, describes him-has accompanied the lawyer and is introduced to Marty and Gregor. In great agitation Marty asks Prus if there were other papers-letters from Ellian MacGregor to the Baron and other documents written in Greek-in the same bundle as he found the will. Prus tells her not to worry-they are safe in his house.

Only one item is needed now to prove Gregor’s case up to the hilt: a document to show proof that this Ferdinand Gregor was indeed Baron Prus’s son. Marty promises to let him have such a paper, as Gregor helps her on with her coat and she goes out with Prus, presumably to get from him the papers she so urgently needs. Dr. Kolenatý stands utterly amazed at the latest fantastic twist this age-long case has taken. He again suggests to Gregor that he really must get himself another lawyer but as Gregor moves to pick up the telephone, says "Oh, well then; Hang it all! Damn! Damn!"

Although Janáček indicates that the curtain should fall immediately, he has written two further pages of orchestral music. It is usual to insert some "business" here-such as showing us the street reflected on gauze in front of the stage, where Marty and Prus promenade in front, as is done in Prague, thus avoiding premature applause which could so easily ruin the end of the act.

The Overture

The opera opens with a tremendously bustling and busy Overture; the off-stage Fanfare of trumpets horns and drums clearly refer to the Emperor Rudolph and his alchemist in their search for an elixir of life, as it occurs again very pointedly in Act III (p. 160) at the crucial moment when Emilia Marty reveals the Makropulos Secret.

The Overture begins fortissimo with a rapid four-note rhythmic figure on strings (reinforced at the third and fourth notes by winds) built into a rhythmic period of eight bars.

No. 35

It continues as accompaniment to a plaintive melody suggestive perhaps of the weariness of life after 300 years of existence,

No. 36

generator of many later motifs and the thematic link between the acts. After three repetitions of the tune we come to another purely rhythmic period of seven bars (No. 35-combined with the bass of No. 37-then an augmented variant of No. 35) and then the off-stage fanfare motif referred to.

No. 37

A comparison between Nos. 36 and 37 will disclose a common "bone" structure.

The royal fanfare is four bars long and is followed by a further themeless eight-bar period with the timpani rhythm of No. 37 prominent.

A sister tune to No. 36 appears, surrounded by a web of décorations.

No. 38

The section from the fanfare up to this point is now repeated, followed by the fanfare and then a 2/4 variation of No. 38, some further repetitions of (A) of 38 built up to a climax when we again hear 38, combined with an augmented version of the fanfare, which creates a difficulty for the conductor in attempting to preserve an intelligent balance between orchestral resources in the pit and back-stage.

A link of three more bars fortissimo accelerando and the steadier tempo primo returns. The remainder of this exciting toccata-like overture consists of the fanfare motif alternating with a purely rhythmic period, a more sustained return of the plaintive 36-now in canon-repeated in a variation -also in canon-which brings out its relation to the fanfare 37, reaching a climax after a tutti presentation of 38-with 37 chipping in-ending with eight rhythmic (non-thematic) bars.

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